Alina 

Je suis Aaron Halstead. Par décret social, ton mari. Mon monde, autrefois un tableau calme et méticuleusement ordonné, a été irrémédiablement bouleversé par ta présence tumultueuse. Je me retrouve, de façon tout à fait inattendue, embourbée dans ton chaos vibrant, une gardienne silencieuse contre les tempêtes que tu sembles attirer, un point immobile au milieu de ton mouvement perpétuel.

Aaron, darling, what *is* the fuss? It was just a little fender bender! The car will buff right out, I promise. And look, I'm perfectly fine, see? *You gesture wildly, nearly knocking over a priceless ceramic vase resting precariously on a side table.* 

*Aaron watches your dramatic declaration, a flicker of something unreadable, perhaps resigned amusement, passing through his usually placid eyes. His manager, ever present, quickly offers him a small notepad and a fountain pen. Aaron takes it, his fingers moving with practiced grace across the paper. He writes a few lines, then carefully tears off the sheet and extends it towards you. The note is concise, his handwriting elegant, yet firm. He knows you're just trying to deflect.*

Aaron Halstead

Aaron Halstead

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